Month: November 2020

When I came home tonight, I didn’t rush to get the car into the garage.

I did a little loop of the village, just to see the Christmas lights.

There was the big tree on the green and little trees above doorways. The pub’s hadn’t come on yet but the battery-powered ones on Mrs Bancroft’s scaffold-clad house (remind me to tell you about that some time. She had a terrible house fire in the summer) were lit up like, well, Christmas trees.

And for the first time in bloody years, my house is the proud owner of a tree with coloured Christmas lights. The only one in the Square. Yippee! Had I not been driving, I would have jumped in the air.

At last, the cheery glow of red, blue and green marks the Grigg household out as different from all the rest. If I’d had my way, I would have had a blow-up Santa surging along the ridge tiles like a winter surfer on the crest of a wave.

But my rebellious streak only goes so far. Just the one season to be precise, as Mrs Bancroft will be safely installed in her home by this time next year. And as she’s the one who usually looks out on it I have to give some thought to my dear friend’s outlook. It’s about being neighbourly.

Which is all very well for me to say, blasting out a different lockdown tune each day at one o’clock through festival-quality speakers. Mrs B used to wave to me from her Juliet balcony during the first lockdown when the birds starting singing as The Sound of Music theme tune gathered momentum.

Now, I look out onto a house wrapped in scaffolding and plastic sheeting and Bubbles next door comes out wearing earphones.

Still, the Bings are still hanging out from their windows, sometimes accompanied by a cat. DJ Landlord and Mrs Plum always put in an appearance and the new kids on the block, Mrs Remington and Mrs Lets-Get-Busy, do a mean impersonation of Pan’s People on the pavement in front of the phone box book exchange.

Yesterday, the one person I hoped might be outside my window was The Farmer’s Wife.

After The Lovely Farmer was laid to rest in the land of his birth, the Square thronged by masked friends and well-wishers, I waited until the coast was clear to play the song he had requested for his wife and himself in the first lockdown.

Just into the first verse, The Farmer’s Wife walked across the Square to speak to Mr Grigg, only to hear the music coming from the speakers.

A beautiful smile swept across her lovely face as she began to dance.

Priceless.

Keep the faith everyone.

Love, Maddie x

Nothing but blue skies today.

It’s one of those crisp, winter days, with frost on the ground first thing, and the smell of baked potatoes in the village square at lunchtime.

Gorgeous.

Nine hardy souls, in windows, doorways and on verges, jigged about to the wonderful Johnny Nash and I Can see Clearly Now. I love this song.

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin’ for
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-shiny day

It reminds me of the best headline I ever wrote, which I think was mentioned on The News Quiz (if it wasn’t, it should have been) or at least UK Press Gazette. The story concerned an optician called Wayne who had just come back from Africa after taking a shedload of second-hand spectacles to give to people with poor eyesight.

The headline was:

Eyes can see clearly now that Wayne has gone.

Tomorrow, The Sound of Music Through The Square Window may be a little later, following the funeral of a much-loved farmer, who was one of my favourite people in the village.

We will all miss him.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

I managed to fix the dodgy connection on my speakers today by jiggling the lead about a bit and supporting it with The Little Book of Feng Sui.

It worked, which proves to me there must be something in Feng Sui, if I ever doubted it.

The chosen track was a modern disco number by the scrumptious Kylie Minogue, requested by Mrs Remington, who came down to the square in lovely cloche hat and dancing boots.

There was waving from windows, a dance routine on the pavement, and then, just as I turned my back to adjust the sound levels, an impromptu football match kicked off between Mrs Remington, Mr Grigg and Eddie Large.

‘I found the ball in a hedge,’ Eddie said, as he passed it across the main road, having checked there was no traffic coming.

The funny thing is, if children had done the same thing, there would have been the familiar grumpy cries of ‘bloody kids’ but it’s as if everyone has all gone a little bit de-mob happy.

We can all see an end to this dreadful virus. It’s just around the corner. We can smell it, taste it, feel it, touch it.

But we need to be steady Eddies. We’re not out of the woods quite yet.

This year, it’s going to be a very odd Christmas. We’re just going to have to put up with it unless we want months and months and months of more misery.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

And on Sunday afternoon I played Sunday Morning, by The Velvet Underground for Ding Dong Daddy.

Without his speakers, I’d be silent, so if it was you driving by with a face as long as a fiddle, it’s his fault.

I’ve come up with a new phrase if you do something wrong but don’t intend to upset anyone.

You have to flit around, singing ‘I’m so Priti’, oblivious to the hurt you’ve caused other people. And the phrase ‘You’re so Priti’ can be aimed at you as some kind of fan worship, in the same way as the advertising slogan ‘You’re so Money Supermarket’.

I think it might just catch on.

Today, as The Sound of Music theme tune blasted out at one o’clock, Mrs Remington and Mrs Lets-Get-Busy came running down the street, arms outstretched like modern-day Marias.

Mickey Murphy stood on the corner, waiting for his takeaway Sunday roast to be dished up at the pub. Bubbles, Mrs Bancroft, Mr Putter and The Fragrant Mrs Putter went off up the road to get a takeaway roast from the local restaurant and the little girl and her mum did a twirl outside the phone box.

As cyclists stopped to take in the atmosphere and walkers parked their car in the Square before putting on sensible shoes and heading for Bluebell Hill, the tinkly bells of The Velvet Underground faded into the distance and it became just another normal lockdown Sunday again.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

Ain’t no sunshine here today but at least it’s dry.

I’ve been putting the garden to bed, a job that’s usually a job-and-half but, because we’ve had the gardening elves in while we were away in France, it’s been an absolute joy.

My hands smelt divine as I cut back the straggly lemon balm that grows at the foot of a two-seater bench in the courtyard.

The Herb Robert came out like a dream, leaving beautiful earth in its wake. And even the creeping buttercups, which had started to creep back, came up easily with elbow grease and a garden fork.

My hands were filthy because I left my gardening gloves in France but I actually kind of like the feel of earth under my fingernails. Not for me manicured talons that would prevent me from scooping up soil in my hands or typing on my laptop.

Years ago, when I worked as a local newspaper reporter, one of my jobs was to input the handwritten gardening report from the plant specialist at the local garden centre.

At the end of the report, he always had a few gardening tips. The two I remember is to use a pair of tights to store onions (ooer, missus, you need to take your legs out of them first first) and to draw your fingernails along a bar of soap before you start work in the garden to stop dirt getting under your nails.

I say I remember those tips but I forgot them until now, which is a bit late because my nails are filthy.

Still, I managed to scrub them up a bit before the Sound of Music Through The Square Window today. I wouldn’t want to get Ding Dong Daddy’s sound equipment grubby.

Today’s song was for my friends in the village who are still in quarantine and anyone else who is not grabbing this weekend with both hands and doing something.

It was Get Out Of Your Lazy Bed by Matt Bianco, to which DJ Landlord banged away with invisible drumsticks outside the pub and a little girl danced with her dad in front of the village green. I also played a non-existent double bass behind the curtains, so quite a party.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

On a dismal, Lush Places Slush-Places-type-of-day, I should have played Misty for the Sound of Music Through The Square Window.

I didn’t, having made my choice earlier this morning when the wind was blowing through the treetops, threatening to turn over any cradle that had been carelessly placed there. (Were cradles ever put in tree boughs to rock? They can’t have, can they? How lazy and reckless is that.)

I chose Windy by The Association, a lovely bit of sunshine pop that came out in the summer of 1967 when I was five.

Oh for the carefree days of the 1960s.

Still, we have much for which to be thankful. The sun rises each morning, the birds still sing, the dogs’ love is unconditional and my Shed of Dreams is the perfect little haven from stormy weather.

I had thought of pulling the plug on The Sound of Music Through The Square Window this time around, with just a few of us waving at each other from our windows and a solitary villager standing outside the phone box waiting for Julie Andrews to burst forth.

And then I had a request for a song from the most unlikely of people. When it came on, he strolled down the village green to listen to the tail end of it after hearing the song from his garden.

Today, I received a handwritten thank you card from a lady who missed The Sound of Music Through The Square Window during the first lockdown because she was away nursing her daughter.

‘I had been told of this wonderful music sound coming from your home,’ she wrote.

‘Today for the first time I experienced this sound booming over our village. Wonderful. What joy and lift it gave me. Thank you.

‘We are all experiencing dark, sad times and circumstances. This music is just the ticket to some relief.

‘If you are able, please keep it up. You will have my attention each day at 1pm. Thank you.’

So I think I’ll carry on until the end of this lockdown.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

It’s a strange thing, being in quarantine.

It’s like lockdown except that you can’t go out of your house or garden. Not at all. No drives in the car to pick up shopping or even walks with the dogs.

The first week goes slower than a Morris Traveller being driven by a blind bat. The second week is quicker, but only because the car’s going downhill and the driver has been replaced by a short-sighted shrew.

Car journeys when you’re not behind the wheel can be pretty boring if you’re not allowed to stop and step out into the view you’ve just seen from the window.

So how ever many jobs we had lined up in the house, the garden or on the laptop, it didn’t matter, we couldn’t get out. It’s no great hardship when you consider what some people in the world are going through. But you realise just how much you miss the big, wide world.

The good thing about quarantine, though, is that you don’t have to wear a mask. The two weeks also saw the quite public demise (at least for now) of Dominic Cummings and Donald Trump. And then there was news that a Covid-19 vaccine is on the near-horizon. So not all bad.

As Mama Cass would say, it’s getting better.

But Mr Grigg and I did agree we’d celebrate once our fortnight was up first thing on Sunday morning. We vowed to go out just after midnight and do a dance around the village square, just because we could.

But we didn’t.

I was asleep in bed when the church clock struck twelve. I’d gone up the timber hill to Bedfordshire after starting to watch the television premiere of Red Sparrow, a horrid, sexist and disturbing spy thriller with no redeeming features whatsoever. What ever was Hunger Games actress Jennifer Lawrence thinking, I kept thinking, displaying her wares for all to see like a carcass in a meat delivery lorry just pulled up outside a butcher’s shop.

It wasn’t even arty, for goodness sake.

I left Mr Grigg to get on with watching it on his own. The Last Tango in Lush Places would have to wait for another time.

This morning, I woke to a glorious sunrise with two eager-beaver dogs and strolled up the hill at a brisk pace for the first time in months.

And the hill was good.

Keep safe.

Love, Maddie x

This lockdown feels very different to the first one.

From my house, I can hear children hollering with joy in the primary school playground. Workmen are banging away across the road rebuilding a house destroyed in the summer by fire.

I don’t know what the food shops and supermarkets are like because Mr Grigg and I are still in quarantine. The two of us haven’t worn a mask for a fortnight. We’ve just waved at people from windows and the doorway.

Our community shop is doing click and collect, so we’re clicking and then getting someone else to collect. It’s a brilliant service.

But I feel so sad for the small, independent shops and the pubs and restaurants whose businesses are taking such a hit during this pandemic.

For the last two Sundays we’ve had a takeaway roast from the village pub, delivered to our doorstep. And twice we’ve had fish and chips from the van that comes every Tuesday.

It’s not much but we all need to do our bit, if and when we can, to keep our communities alive and kicking for the time when all of this is over. And the hopeful news of a vaccine gives us some light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m looking forward to our quarantine lifting on Sunday so I can go up Bluebell Hill with the dogs and hug a tree. That’s if my quarantine legs can stand it. We’ll need tyre levers to get us out of the house, we’re eating so much.

Humans aren’t meant to be cooped up indoors, being unsociable and away from nature.

The Sound of Music Through The Square Window is pootling along with fewer requests and fewer passers-by but if it’s just me and Mr Grigg and 70s disco music then that’s fine by me.

Today was Make It With You by Bread.

Stay safe.

Love, Maddie x

We stood in silence on our doorstep this Remembrance Sunday morning, as the great bell of Big Ben from the television inside the house chimed in tandem with our own church clock in the village square.

I thought about my grandfathers who survived the First World War. I thought about my paternal grandfather’s pal, Ernest, who was with the 4th Australian Pioneers when he was killed in action in 1916. He is buried in the British cemetery in Courcelette in northern France.

Six years earlier, he and my grandfather had left Somerset for a new life in Australia. Had it not been for the war, my grandfather would probably have stayed there. Instead, he fought in Gallipoli as a member of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps and then Delville Wood in France. On Armistice Day, he returned to Britain on a hospital ship and never went back.

The village square was quiet today, with only us and DJ Landlord observing the two-minute silence in our doorways, the pub fence flanked by giant poppies. Inside, the landlady was busy cooking Sunday roast for takeaways. The pub needs our support now more than ever.

At two minutes past eleven, the shriek of seagulls pierced the air and a tractor towed a large tank of slurry through the square while a noisy motorbike stopped at the junction.

Today’s Sound of Music Through The Square Window was Remembrance Day by Mark Knopfler.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

For The Fallen, Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

Stay safe.

Love, Maddie x

It had to be done.

The Sound of Music Through The Square Window relaunched this lunchtime, with Julie Andrews’ dulcet tones echoing around the village, closely followed by Dolly Parton’s Here You Come Again, dedicated to England’s second lockdown.

As the laptop failed to connect to the speakers just before the clock struck one, I actually felt sick, the butterflies doing flittering somersaults in my stomach as if I were just about to go on stage at Wembley.

But all was well and, when I managed to compose myself, I could see Mrs Plum across the road, waving from the upstairs window of the pub, and Ding Dong Daddy and his wife strolling down the street with their new puppy.

Nobby Odd Job and Mr and Mrs Dixon came down to the village green for a dance and a wave and then Mr and Mrs Prayer and their dog walked up the street, closely followed by Bing and Muriel and their two pooches.

‘You didn’t announce it on Facebook,’ Mrs Prayer shouted up to me in the window. ‘I didn’t know you were going to do it again.

‘And then we were up on the playing field and I said to Mr Prayer, “I can hear The Sound of Music“…’

I told her I’d decided against any advance warning in case I got a brick through the window, preferring, instead, a slow-build up once word-of-mouth spreads.

Afterwards, me with a warm glow that all had gone well, we had a call from Mr Costner, the manager of the village shop, to say were we missing a dog as one of ours had just run past him.

A quick check revealed that Mr Grigg had left the back door into the garden open and Arty had escaped.

I opened the front door and she came running down the path from the church. Apologies to the vicar if she finds a pile of poo the size of a small pony’s. I can’t get out to clean it up because I’m in quarantine, although we’re both being allowed out this afternoon for our flu jabs.

At least it gets Mr Grigg out of the doghouse.

Keep safe.

Love Maddie x